Spring 2011 - The Heschel School

Suggestions
^From Your Resident
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Though I graduated from high school as valedictorian, the events that have
transpired in the past three hours have been far from my proudest. I find
myself reflecting on my naïveté — I used to think that a high school diploma
guaranteed success, or at least represented a promising future. It seems
however, that I still have those days where my intelligence level appears to
be that of a kindergarten student, days where I’m just about as graceful as
that poor gazelle that was never as swift as the other gazelles. If I were a
gazelle, today I would have been shunned by all of my gazelle friends.
The fire wins the prize for my most dangerous mistake. As if practically
ice-skating across the freshly glossed floor and slamming into the table
were not mortifying enough, there simply had to be a candle on the table
that so rudely decided to come crashing to the floor. Flames leaped from
the candle as fire spews from an angry dragon’s mouth. They engulfed the
neatly set table, cloth and all, throwing spoons and forks into the air like
amateur jugglers. As far as I recall, my invitation to the extravagant dinner
with my best friend promised nothing about a spontaneous circus performance.
I suppose where there’s a circus there are refreshments. Cotton candy
didn’t seem to be on the menu, but crème-brulee most certainly was. As I
reached to the next table to grab the water pitcher, my eyes still fixed on the
deep red color of the flames, I stuck my hand into the warm dessert instead
of grasping the handle of the water pitcher.
A quick side note: I’ve never been able to focus. While in the midst of
the most perilous adventure, while reading the climax of a story, or while
watching a fire swallow a restaurant whole, I can’t ever seem to shut out
distractions. Thus, inevitably, I couldn’t help but pause to lick my fingers.
Scrumptious.
The blaze continued to spread, and it was time to get the hell out of
there. As I burst out onto the street, gasping for air, a fireman reached out a
gloved hand to help pull me to the next block. When we reached safety, he
asked me name. Coughing up smoke, I said, “Sane Jmith” instead of “Jane
Smith.” I blame that one on the smoke.
As I sat there, in my state of utter shame, watching the life-long
achievements of the most prestigious chef in town go up in smoke, a certain
song came to mind. “High School Never Ends,” by Bowling For Soup,
blasted in my head as if there were actual speakers hidden between the
Danielle Carmi, photograph
strands of my hair. Try as I might, the lyric “life’s pretty much the same as
it was back then” repeated over and over like a broken record.
The throbbing beat of the imaginary music stopped as my friend,
Allison Gold, ran over from the restaurant, plopping her heavy body down
on the curb next to my new fireman friend and me. Alison put her chubby
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